


Invaders from Outer Space and Other Impossible Things to See Before You Die

by ignipes



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-30
Updated: 2007-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-03 13:55:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing is, even if Dean wants to go to the actual moon, not just a rough approximation a few hundred miles from the middle of nowhere, Sam knows he's going to say yes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Invaders from Outer Space and Other Impossible Things to See Before You Die

"It could be anything."

"Well. Not quite."

"What, so you know what it is?"

"No, I'm just saying that it can't really be _anything_."

"Meaning?"

"Well, it's not a banana. Or a Brazilian bikini."

"A Brazilian--right, very funny. C'mon, Dean, maybe try to focus--"

"And it's not a sirloin steak cooked medium rare."

"Dean."

"Or a six pack of--"

"_Dean!_"

"Dude, what? I'm telling you, I have no fucking idea what it is. I mean, besides a UFO."

-

Dean is squinting downward, frowning. The silver metal is shimmering, heat rising from it in waves, dusted around the sides with red and black dirt and dug deep into the ground at the end of a long, straight gouge. Sam wants to pace the track, count out how long it is, but he doesn't move away, not yet. Overhead the sky is flawless blue, hot and clear, and around them black hills hunch like creatures on the horizon. They took a right turn in Boise and ended up on another planet. He's never letting Dean navigate again.

Men in the moon, he thinks, and he wipes a bead of sweat from his face.

Maybe he said it out loud or maybe he's making a face, but Dean is looking at him now, not quite smiling but near enough for Sam to see the twitch of his lips.

"You figure out how to open it," Dean says, turning on his heels. "I'm gonna see how far it dragged. Don't blow yourself up."

The object is too hot to touch. It burns the tips of Sam's fingers when he tries, so he stands a few feet back, hands dangling at his sides, and watches Dean instead.

He's walking away slowly, his steps careful and even, stepping over the round stones that litter the bottom of the valley and crunching right through pathetic little plants. His back is to Sam and he's too far away, but Sam knows his lips are moving, counting out his paces in whispers. One hundred, two hundred, so far that Sam thinks it's time to prepare a joke about not knowing Dean could count that high, so far that he's only a shape, a blur of color and motion.

When Dean stops, turns and waves, Sam raises one arm in acknowledge and goes back to examining the object. Staring at it doesn't seem to be doing much good, so he strips off his shirt and wraps the soft cotton around his hand. He can feel the heat of the metal even through the fabric, but he pokes and prods patiently, feeling for seams and rivets, over the top of the graceful curve and down to where the dirt is churned up. The sun is blazing on his back and he's going to earn a nice sunburn, and he can't find any way to crack the featureless silver shell.

The car is about half a mile away, and Sam walks toward it slowly, finds Dean's toolbox and a bottle of water, walks back. Craters and cinder cones, debris and old eruptions frozen in time, the landscape is just the kind of place invaders from outer space would decide to land, if they were feeling a bit homesick.

-

Most people, given exactly one year to live, would go looking for excitement, or meaning, or religion, or lots of really good drugs. Travel the world, fly to Paris, go bungee jumping, learn to scuba dive, embark upon an adventure of debauchery and degeneracy--well, okay, Sam has to admit Dean has a pretty good head start in that department.

That's what most people would do.

What Dean does is surf the internet until he finds reports of mysterious lights flying over a remote corner of Idaho, and he says, "C'mon, let's go. Maybe we'll catch a little green man."

And Sam agrees.

The thing is, even if Dean wants to go to the actual moon, not just a rough approximation a few hundred miles from the middle of nowhere, Sam knows he's going to say yes.

-

"It's not a UFO."

"It's unidentified. It's an object. And it was flying."

"No, it was falling. All the eyewitness reports said it pretty much failed at the flying thing."

"Doesn't matter. Still starts with an _f_. Still a UFO."

"You don't even believe in aliens."

"I didn't say it was an alien spaceship, Sam. See, that would make it an identified object."

"Whatever, smartass. Go get the sledgehammer. I can't figure out how to crack this thing."

-

"Never seen one of those before," over and over again, and after a couple of months Sam realizes that's Dean's new mantra. "Never killed one of those before. Never met anyone like that before. Never knew a girl who could do that with her--"

"Dean!"

"Dude, chill. I'm just telling you, I've never seen it before."

Never, never, never, it's a long, long list of never, and they crisscross the country again and again, burning through tank after tank of gas, lining up check marks on the list. Not even thirty years old yet and Dean knows better than anyone everything he's never done, never seen, never known.

Sam wants to tell him to stop. Stop thinking about running out of time and start thinking about finding more of it, but when he brings it up Dean just finishes his beer and winks at the waitress and says, "Hey, I've never hunted for aliens before. We can make Idaho by noon tomorrow if we haul ass."

Sam wants to tell him to stop, but instead he agrees. They hit the road.

-

It's getting late and the desert is wavering in the evening sun, parched as the inside of an oven. He expected more people, gawkers and UFO seekers following the reports posted all over the internet, but it looks like they're the only ones lucky enough to actually find the thing. Surrounding them for miles are nothing but empty space and washboard dirt roads, volcanic hills and stifling silence.

"You ever wonder why UFOs never crash in the suburbs?" Sam stretches his legs before him, rolls his shoulders and winces at the brush of cotton over his newly-acquired sunburn. He watches Dean toss a screwdriver from one hand to the other. "They always crash in the middle of nowhere. Never right into somebody's swimming pool or living room."

Dean catches the screwdriver neatly and considers, then goes back to looking for invisible seams and hidden buttons. "Maybe they aren't crashing. Maybe it's just a rough landing."

Sam looks along the deep gouge of dirt the thing left when it landed. A thousand feet long, according to Dean's measurements, and over three feet deep in places. "Pretty rough," Sam says. "Kinda like if you were driving."

Without glancing up, Dean flips him the finger and returns to his examination.

Closing his eyes, Sam leans back on his elbows and yawns. He feels dried out, burnt up, like a mummy that doesn't know it's dead yet, and he's about to ask how much longer they have to hang out in this godforsaken place when he hears the clatter of tools and the muffled grunt of Dean dropping to the ground beside him.

"I got no fucking clue," Dean says.

Sam opens one eye. The silver object is unchanged, unmarked, as closed and secretive as it was when they found it. "Give up?"

"Hell no." Dean lies down, wriggles around like it's going to make the rocks more comfortable, and puts his hands behind his head. "We'll wait for tonight, maybe see some of those lights."

-

"What's that?"

"What? You see a light?"

"I thought--I guess not. Maybe it was a shooting star."

"Maybe you're seeing things."

"Bite me. Do you think that..."

"What?"

"Well, I'm just thinking. If it is a UFO--"

"Alien spaceship."

"Yeah, whatever. If it is an _alien spaceship_, does that mean there's something stuck inside there?"

"You mean, like, an alien?"

"No, I mean, like, this year's _Sports Illustrated_ cover model. Yes, Dean, I mean an alien. Sitting in there, maybe watching while we try to break it open."

"Well. I guess. Probably. If it's a spaceship."

"Maybe it's just a probe."

"Yeah. Maybe."

"Dean, it's not that funny."

"It's definitely a probe."

"I meant--"

"It is definitely, absolutely an alien probe."

"Oh, never mind. You choke on your tongue laughing I'm going to let you die."

"Nah, you won't."

"No, I won't."

"Sammy, look--"

"I just don't understand why you--"

"You think he has tentacles?"

"He--what? Who?"

"The dude inside the probe. Betcha ten dollars he has tentacles."

-

He counts the days. Ticks them off in his mind, never says it aloud. He waits for Dean to fall asleep and he switches on the lamp by the bed. He reads through old books and marks his place carefully when the words blur together. He writes down notes and lists, people to find and things to try.

And he thinks: this is not new. This is not a place they've never been, this is not a battle they've never fought. Yeah, okay, dead for a while and come back to life, ticking clock on Dean's soul and eternal torment at the end of the game, but it's only a demon. It's only a deal. They've dealt with worse. Hell, it's practically _mythological_, getting out of deals with demons. They can figure it out.

Sometimes--usually right after Dean says something like, "Hey, I know where we go next, I've never seen a haunted bug museum before, you think there are centipede zombies?"--sometimes he even believes it.

-

When they wake up in the morning, the silver object is gone.

The ditch it spewed up when it landed is still there, but the thing is gone. Their tools are still scattered around, the sledgehammer lying where Dean dropped it, and everything is covered with a fine, gritty layer of dust.

"Dude." Dean's hair is sticking up and his arms are spread wide, and the sun rising at his back gives him a blinding golden glow, like a hedgehog-headed desert vision. "What the fuck? Where the hell did it go?"

Sam blinks and rubs his eyes and sneezes twice, but the silver object does not reappear. "I guess they came to get it while we were asleep." He sits up and smells sage on the air, tastes the fine volcanic dust in his throat and wonders how far they have to drive to find a cup of coffee.

Dean nods slowly. "Yeah. Like an intergalactic salvage operation. Like a spaceship tow truck."

Hooking his arms around his knees, Sam shakes his head and grins. Apparently, sometime during the night they went from _don't believe in aliens_ to _imagining blue collar alien career choices_. "And we slept through it," he says, disappointed.

"At least they didn't abduct us."

"Maybe they _did_ abduct us."

"Dude. Don't even."

"Why not?" Sam does his best to sound as innocent as possible, but he doubts Dean is fooled. "You've never been probed by an alien before. It's a new life experience."

For a second he thinks Dean might say something, thinks maybe his expression has turned serious, but Dean only kicks a spray of dirt over Sam and says, "Get off your ass, princess, and help me pick this shit up."

In the morning the world around them is softer, gentler. Still empty and pockmarked by craters, still littered with jagged stones and growing hot as the sun creeps higher, but it's less menacing, more familiar. Not another world, not anymore, and even though they have to drive about two hundred miles to find a decent cup of coffee, Sam lets himself think: yeah, okay, never been here before yesterday, and now it's a place they know. A place they can return to, when the lights starts falling from the sky again.


End file.
